This person in my bed seems so familiar, but from someone else's memory.
What century were they from and why can't I place it?
I could feel their panic from the devastating knowledge that their trip was one way. They would never be back home, in the years they were meant to live. I felt extreme sorrow for them. This world, this life was so busy, so advanced, so fast-paced — it must seem totally chaotic. No wonder they don’t want to leave my bed. Facing the real world to them is terrifying. They’re trapped in this nightmare. Forever.
How does one adjust to such a situation? It's not as if you can simply ignore the world's way of living and live as if you cannot see what is around you.
Can you?
Ink and paper doesn't seem too unfamiliar to him, but he treats it as a precious, luxurious commodity as he writes. It seems strange then that as soon as the pen and notepad are placed on the bedside table, it returns to just being me, alone in bed.
I will upload his work to the blog tomorrow morning and consider his predicament when he returns tomorrow evening. I just wish I could talk to him and ask him everything I wish to.
Then again, like me, he has no answers. If he did, he wouldn’t be writing this.
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